Aftermath of the storm. Day seven in the Southern Ocean. Sent via satellite.
“Look,” says the captain, “we can run the watermaker and the heater, and charge the laptop and iPad. But the question is: using what? We have enough fuel for 50 days if we run the engine for two hours a day. I think the main thing now is to fill the water tanks and keep the navigation equipment charged. One hour of running the heater uses as much energy as one hour of charging the laptop. Do the maths yourselves.”
We are taking stock of the losses after the storm. When the engine overheated, the safety valve tripped and water from the calorifier drained into the bilge. We do not know how much escaped, because the tank level sensor has stopped telling the truth. Of our four solar panels, two remain. The backstay adjuster came apart; the rest is of no real consequence for the voyage.
The loss of a source of electrical power has disrupted our normal way of life for now, because we cannot watch films as usual. Normally, that means an educational documentary in the morning and a feature film in the evening. During our two-month nonstop passage across the South Pacific, while the night watchkeepers were asleep, the young sailor and I would curl up on the sofa in the mornings and, sharing a single pair of earphones and a bar of chocolate, watch a cartoon in English. Then it was time for lessons or crafts, deck work and chores.
We are discussing with the children how to turn the ban on videos into at least a restriction, while keeping the evening screening sacrosanct. The captain is bombarded with questions:
“What if we watch on the iPad instead of the laptop?”
“What if we turn off the lights in the evening and dim the screen?”
“What if we put on another jumper and run the heater for an hour less?”
Our evening film sessions are not as important to the captain as they are to us, so reaching an agreement is not easy. But there are more of us, so we’ll win through sheer force of numbers. One thing is clear: life will never be the same again until we get new panels. In other words, not before Cape Town at best.
“Just think about it: what’s better—sixteen degrees and a cheerful crew, or twenty degrees and a miserable one?”
And the captain gives the very answer that confounds every child who has spent a solid hour begging their parents for permission to go out. Remember?
“Mum, can I?”
“No.”
“Muuum, please!”
After an hour of whining, Mum exhales wearily: “Do whatever you want.”
And how are you supposed to go out after that, I ask you? You sit at home like an idiot and do your homework all evening.
In fairness, I should say that watching a film ashore and watching one in the middle of the ocean are two very different things. When you’re among people, you watch a film if everything falls into place: there is time, no one has come to visit, the chores are done, and there is something interesting on TV. Though when did we last watch anything on TV? You stick in a flash drive and off you go, without adverts. We certainly managed that a couple of times a week.
A film before bed in the ocean is a reminder that there are other people in the world: they feel things, have adventures, love, chase, run away and solve life’s puzzles. It is lovely time spent together, when the young sailors and I sip tea, cuddled up in the half-light, and worry about Captain Grant’s children or some chosen one like Neo. Those ninety minutes are a very important part of the day. Afterwards, going to sleep—or standing watch with a book—is pure pleasure.
Not to mention that I need to write posts and letters, and there has to be enough charge for those. Well, you get the picture: a sailor’s life is a hard one.
At least it isn’t stormy. Yesterday, for half the day, the lack of gadgets had us playing board games; today we’ve been conducting culinary experiments. The young sailor fed us all stew made from a recipe in a children’s book, while the first mate baked courgettes and aubergines with cheese and tomatoes. In the morning we also had toasted sandwiches with Crimean herbal tea, which was among the gifts from the wonderful captain of the trawler Arctic Wolf. There is also a resinous cedar cone in there; we are happily cracking one pine nut at a time and remembering our native Siberia. And the menu includes plenty of apples and oranges. We will once again make candied-peel preserve from the thick rinds. A sailor does not live by instant noodles alone.
In the meantime, our provident captain has changed the engine impeller, reassembled the backstay adjuster and dealt with all sorts of little things. Twice a day he climbs down into the bilge because one thing after another has been acting up since the storm. Now he is going to unscrew the LED bulb in the heads, because it burns around the clock—the damp has shorted the circuit somewhere. So that’s where all the electricity is going! Once he has unscrewed it, we’ll resume negotiations about the evening film. I’m not writing with the screen at its darkest setting for nothing, economising so much that I can’t even see the letters.
We also need to find out what is going on with our Iridium tracker, which has not been recording our route since the 31st.
Valery L., thank you very much for your wonderful messages and vigilance. We truly appreciate how much you care about us.
We are tacking north. Soon a northerly headwind will arrive; we’ll have some sea room, and then we’ll fly west with an easy mind. The ocean is almost calm, with a high swell and occasional confused waves. The sky alternates between frowning and slowly warming the wheelhouse with the sun’s rays. Since morning, the wind has eased to 25 knots, and now it is down to around 15.
We have crossed from the Furious Fifties into the Roaring Forties. The snowstorms stopped at once, and even the toothpaste has stopped freezing in the tube. For several months it was rather funny, coming out in small, semi-solid chunks. The ocean water has probably warmed up too: instead of 2–4 degrees, it is now 5. Life is getting back on track; we are heading towards warmth. We have plenty of food, we are stocking up on water, and everything is fine.
I’m off to write letters before the battery dies. While the Route tab remains silent—if it is still silent—we are attaching a picture of our storm-twisted track from the Strait of Magellan right up to this very minute.
Hugs to everyone from 48 degrees south! Thank you, dear ones, for being there for us! Your comments and support truly keep us warm. We send you warmth, and may everything work out!
Yours, Andrey, Marina, Nastya, Lada and Lady Mary.